Learning to Grieve

My mom died January 10th 2008, three years ago today.

It's one of those things you don't really get over; something you can't ever quite put behind you.

There are moments of pure grief involved. I think of the last three years of my life - in many ways the best three years of my life, and think about how my mom never got to see those. She never got to hear me talk about my final months in Charleston; she never watched me pursue Jess; she never got to watch my wedding; she never really had a chance to see me grow up and be a man (in my humble opinion, of course).

But then there are moments of pure anger as well. Because it was her decisions that ultimately prevented her from seeing any of those moments. My mom was an alcoholic, and when she was brought to the hospital with a sudden onset of jaundice, it was discovered that she had lost her liver to cirrhosis. Worse - she had known that there was something wrong for sometime and had kept it hidden from everyone else. The lack of medical follow-through meant that when she was finally forced to go to the hospital, she had also lost the function of her kidneys.

Even at this point, she didn't want to stop drinking.

So it's a strange thing to look back and remember. Because I may have moments of grief, but sometimes they flow into anger, and vice versa.

The one thing I've noticed about losing my mom is that stories about her mean so much more now. At Christmas, I shared a story about my favorite Christmas memory at an office party, and I was surprised to find that the point of the story was just the look on my mom's face for one Christmas. It's a story that I probably would never have remember or thought twice of if my mom was still here.

I've wanted to write down my experiences of that two week period three years ago for some time. It's an amazing story the more I look back on it - not amazing in a good way, mind you. I lived in Charleston; went on vacation to Michigan; and came back motherless two weeks later. It happened that quick.

I've written some of those experiences down, but not all of them. I remember struggling to pretend to be strong for my family and for my dad; I remember anger at some of the ways family members responded; I remember the fumbling terror the morning where my dad called into the bedroom I was sleeping in that we needed to go to the Hospice center right there and I remember the numbing sensation that covered my entire self the moment I realized that it could only mean one thing.

But it's not all terrible memories. I also remember being overwhelmed with the grace and kindness of my friends. I remember crying on the phone with several of my friends, and friends crying on the phone with me. I remember the cavalry showing up and taking me out to dinner. I remember the morning she died driving to Cornerstone and just being with a friend who had no idea what had even happened and how that was exactly what I needed.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a few things about what I think this year is going to be about - a few of my resolutions. I think this is an important part of this year too, learning to face and confront this grief. I don't think it's a coincidence that I've recently developed a friendship with a man who lost his mom a few years ago. I don't think it's a coincidence that I'm wanting to write more and that this is one of the larger projects I've considered writing.

I'm not entirely sure where this is going, but I do know where it's been. I think even stepping out and writing this post could be a first step - a first step to healing; a first step to growth; a first step towards learning to grieve.